


The City That Never Sleeps

by Moth1988



Category: Sam & Max (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Cynicism, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sexist Language, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moth1988/pseuds/Moth1988
Summary: The city falls and Max is left alone.
Relationships: Max/Sam (Sam & Max)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	The City That Never Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> Second posting of the day, considering it a Valentine's Day special! ❤️
> 
> This one is certainly less upbeat, but I hope you enjoy it anyhow! 💕

Somebody had once told him that space smelled like burning.

Like popcorn left on the burner for too long, like seered smoke and ash burning your sinuses. Space smelled like gunpowder-- _sulfurous_.

He never believed it until now, when something otherworldly had lit up the sky in a blinding white light and shook the city to it's seedy core, leaving behind the distinctive smell of sweet coal fire and an empty city.

New York had always had it's charm, with it's lamp-lit asphalt and odorous smog, permeating the city with an offhanded appeal. He supposes he should be used to it by now, but he ain't. Truly, it's the city that never sleeps, made all the more apparent by the sound of ringing car alarms and settling buildings when the smoke starts to clear.

But New York's never been quieter, few people left in the wake of something truly unknown, seeking solace in an evacuation taking place about two weeks back.

The street's remain empty, and when the aftermath of the distant blast abates, it settles once more into a deafening and truly _unnerving_ silence.

There's a ringing in his ears, a distant hum that's already started to fade, spots in his eyes like he'd looked straight into the sun.

The stars of a dying night's sky start to fade in time with the bleary spots, telling of a dawn soon to come in it's wake.

It's 5 a.m., and his best friend is dead.

* * *

The only tangible grief is a few fast food stops along the road, and the utter emptiness for miles, aftermath of a full-fledged, city-wide evacuation laying in it's wake. The city doesn't crumble like they expected, the only real architectural loss being age-old buildings long due for eviction, anyhow.

Somehow, their office stays in tact.

What happens right afterwards is fuzzy; he can remember his feet planted on the cracked asphalt of the broken road below him, staring blankly at the sky above. The air's humid, foggy with clearing smoke and remnants of something otherworldly, smelling of soot. His fur's tinted grey with two weeks worth of neglect and smog, and he grips the cool metal of his luger in shaking hands, if not for the comfort of it's weight alone.

He vaguely hears familiar voices, hushed in the background, a calloused hand on his shoulder and words of empty encouragement following. It's the only sound for miles, once the city's settled and the aftermath of the blast clears.

He's not sure when, or _how_ exactly, it hits him. When he starts to really comprehend what just happened, that the past two weeks ain't just been some horrible dream. When the smell of burning and soot sets in, staining the top of his fur in a greyish amalgamation that he won't be able to scrub away for _weeks_. When the fear starts to set in, deep in his chest, but he reaches to grab onto Sam's arm and grasps nothing but air.

He screams, so hard that it aches. It's a horrifying sound, breaking and fracturing in his throat like the rest of the city surrounding him, suffocating him with it's smoking brick. His legs give out and he falls to his knees, scraping his palms on the rough concrete and begging towards an empty sky with what voice he's got left to please, _please_ just bring him back.

He knows he's done a lot in his life to deserve this, but Sam never has. Why'd it have to be him? It doesn't make sense, and it's not _fair_.

He begs no one in particular to take him instead, gasping and nearly choking on the bitter air and not caring that he looks like he's finally lost his mind infront of his friends.

It's a pathetic sight, but he doesn't care. Frankly, he could care less about the burning city behind him, and about the few people remaining inside of it.

His friends, those who witnessed the same horrifying conclusion, stand close behind, a quiet resignation lingering in the air and rendering them speechless. He can't say he's any different, when his voice finally goes out and he's left screaming wordlessly at a city, emptier than it's ever been.

He doesn't blame them for staying that way, fiddling with machines in vain and staring at the city skyline, hoping that somehow Sam would reappear.

He doesn't.

* * *

When his hand lays ontop of the cold, metal knob of the door, he can't quite will himself to open it.

When he finally does, stepping through the doorframe and into a dusty office, he swears he's never felt so small.

It's stupid, so fucking _stupid_.

This shouldn't have happened, he should have stopped this from happening. He could've, maybe. If he'd played his cards right, kept those around him from folding, maybe he would have had a chance.

His fur still reeks of ash and sulfer, but showering sounds hellish in the moment. Because it still doesn't feel real, and he's sure one wrong move will make it just that. He wraps his hands around his middle, nauseatingly empty and lacking the familiar presence that's usually there as he hugs himself tight, trying to will away the feeling.

It doesn't help.

He stands, frozen in the doorway, and it's never been so quiet. He can even hear the creak of the floorboards as he crosses over them, but he can hardly feel anything else besides the persistent ringing in his ears.

It was a hell of a blast; Sam would have loved it.

He hops into Sam's old desk chair, swiveling around to peer behind the dusty curtains and look out at the wreckage below.

The city's certainly seen worse, this ain't the end of the world.

He opens a window, just to say he did, because he never much minded the dusty smell of their unkempt office but needs to dispel the smell of burning nicotine and smoke.

The outside air still smells like crackling electricity, damp and heavy with lasting petrichor. The smell almost makes him sick, the memory of pouring rain and screaming until he couldn't anymore being far too fresh in his mind.

Funny, he used to love the smell of rain.

He's not sure how much time passes with him staring out of the window, leering down on empty streets and widened cracks in the concrete. The street lights dim as the sun rises, and after an hour or so, morning comes, and it's almost like nothing had happened at all, if not for the unnervingly quiet city.

_Everything's_ unnervingly quiet, actually, and for the first time in a long, long time; the usually cramped office feels far too big.

He's not sure why he came home, though 'home' truly isn't much of one anymore. The place feels foreign, and the usual smell of ink and old newspaper is drowned out by the acrid smell of sulfer and ash, nearly making him sick with it's stench.

Maybe that's why he reaches for a long-forgotten cigarette, stashed deep into one of the desk drawers. Old habits come back strong when he lights it, breathing in the smell of tobacco and trying to convince himself that it covers up the scent permeating their office.

It stops him from shaking, at least, paws steadying themselves with each lungful of smoke.

He hears a knock on the door, vaguely, before it's being opened and a pretty dame walks in. Or, at least, he presumes that's how it's supposed to be phrased. He'd never found the girl 'pretty', though he'd always respected her feminine wiles. He's immune to a pretty face, though, and she never could quite condule out of him the transfiction she instilled in every other man within a five mile radius. She could manipulate any man she pleased to, and did, even if said man was a seven foot tall cockroach. She ain't picky, and it's apparent.

He shivers at the thought, and of the feeling of her judgemental eyes boring through him. Never did have taste, did she? Necking with a guy like that, flouncing her assets and making any man of her choosing an accomplice. He almost feels bad for the dame when he remembers why exactly he ain't seen much of her around the past few days; too busy in her _own_ mourning.

" _You_ smoke?" He can practically hear the sneer in her voice.

"D'ya got a problem with that?" He asks, all sense of subtlety, what little he ever had, lost to him. He can't quite find the will to put on a pleasant face. Besides, the gal came here; she knew what she was getting into.

"I'm not that much of a snob, Max." She approaches him, footsteps soft and practiced across the floorboards. He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I was just going to ask to bum one."

He can't help but snicker at the wholly unfeminine term, sounding so foreign on her tongue. He hands one to her, doesn't question it, nor her intent. Not yet, not when she's got the ability to explain herself. She no doubt wants something more than just a cheap cigarette.

Though, that's too cheap of a move for even her to pull.

He is a grieving widow, after all, what's she got to pull?

She doesn't leave, taking the thing with nimble and adept fingers and pulling out a plain, silver lighter from her apron pocket. She lights it without a second thought, drawing in a deep breath of smoke with an obviously practiced poise. Like an actress, he thinks, putting on a practiced show for the benefit of an unspoken favor. Or something, he assumes. She ain't come to him for the fun of it, that's for sure.

He doesn't know why he watches her, tired eyes scanning her movements for any sign of ill-intent, but ultimately finding her docile. Doesn't explain why she's here, though. There oughta be better places to loiter.

He's not sure how long it's been, he's quickly found himself without a concept of time, but he does know the other's have been to afraid of his grief-fueled wrath to approach him. He doesn't blame them-- one wrong move and he'd snap. He'd rather mourn in peace anyhow, better to keep anyone from seeing him in a sorry state such as this one.

The silence that falls between them isn't one he's too keen on breaking, but it's tense, and he finds himself waiting for her to say something. There oughta be some reason she'd wandered in the place, afterall, and he doubts the smoke in her hand is just it.

"You know..." She starts softly, voice just as impassible as the rest of her. "My boyfriend died, too. They think it was a fallen telephone line-- or the blast, maybe." She takes another puff, smoke blown out of the window she doesn't take her eyes off of. "But I suppose it doesn't matter. Either way, he's gone."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. He's almost grateful for it, because the words stinging his tongue probably ain't the most polite of things to say. He ain't ever been the one for comfort, anyhow, that was always Sam's job.

"I know it's not the same. You two were together for a long time, weren't you? I never did see one without the other."

He wonders, briefly, if her words are meant to sting as much as they do. 'Never did', echoing in his mind. ' _Did_ ', because right now he's as alone as he's ever been.

"But, either way, we both lost someone. I know how that can feel."

He finds himself bitter, ruminating in his own lone grief. "I don't need your pity, _dollface_." The last word's spit out with acrid mock, and he expects the term to feel the same. After all, the local gumshoe had called her that once, and hardly got away alive with it.

He expects her to sigh, roll her eyes and mutter under her breath about why she even bothers, when he hears a laugh that snaps him back to reality. "'Dollface'? Did you learn that from Flint? I didn't even know people still said that."

Max falls quiet again, and in the silence, she takes another drawl of the thing, already crumbling between her fingertips. "Why're you here?" He spits out without much thought or remorse. She doesn't seem to take offense.

"The others wanted me to check up on you so you didn't do anything stupid."

He scoffs with a bitter snicker, snuffing out the stick on the windowpane and flicking the burn filter out of the window. "Think I'm gonna blow my brains out or somethin'?"

The woman takes another casual drag, unphased. "Well, I don't exactly blame them."

"Gee, thanks." He mutters, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Real good at the whole comforting thing, ain't ya?"

"Look, I can tell you want to be left alone, and I'm not going to argue with you. I just came to say that Momma Bosco wanted to talk to you."

A knot tightens in his stomach at the thought, finding it hard to breathe for a moment or so. Entering the lab again sounds just about the definition of 'hellish'. "What?"

The woman's already turning to leave. "I don't know, something about some elevator or something." His heart drops straight to his stomach, ears perking at her dwindling, nasally voice. "She said she found it stored underground, and wanted to see if you had something to do with it. Something about it clogging up the ' _streamline of time_ ' or whatever. I told her the apocalypse already happened, but she didn't seem to care."

He tries to look unaffected, because there's no way in hell he got so lucky. It's just too good to be true, and he knows that. Can't get his hopes up, afterall, never ends in his favor. "Oh, yeah?" He responds. "Tell her I'll be right down."

She looks awfully suspicious, eyes narrowing at him like she's trying to guage his intent. "Right, sure." She mumbles, already opening the door with a final, untrusting glance cast his way. "Just don't cause anymore trouble than there's already been, 'kay? I'm not looking forward to living through a second apocalypse."

She's gone in an instant, and he's left staring at the doorway. He can feel his chest go tight the moment she leaves, breath catching in his throat as he nearly chokes on it. Feels like the whole world's falling apart again, coming back together in a patchwork of something he can't quite place. He's not sure whether to hate the feeling of it, or bank off of the hope. It's all he's got, really.

Sam's dead, there's no changing that. He watched it, watched him dissapear into nothing with his very own eyes. The city crumbled, leaving ash in it's wake, and only ash.

Sam's dead, he's dead and gone...

Ain't he?


End file.
